


Piercings and Tattoos

by Braindepository



Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, It Gets Better, Time Travel, Wonka on Wonka violence, because Ethel deserves it, broadway musical verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Braindepository/pseuds/Braindepository
Summary: Sometimes, when you bring your son back to the Chocolate Factory so he can be stretched back to normal, time travel accidentally occurs.  Ethel Teavee needs a drink.





	Piercings and Tattoos

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little one-shot, not related to my other fic 'Technical Issues'. I love Ethel Teavee, like, a lot, and I just felt compelled to make things sort of okay for her. Characterizations are from the Broadway musical. All tattoos resembling those on persons who may actually exist and perform the role of Mike Teavee are purely coincidental.

"Are you sure," Ethel Teavee asks, for what might officially be the sixty-seventh time that day, "that he's going to be alright?"

She is in the receiving room at the Wonka Factory, and has been for what seems like ages. She has paced the room several times. She has wrung her hands nearly raw. The chocolatier himself is behind his desk, steadfastly ignoring her, except to occasionally shoot her a look she interprets to mean that if she wears a hole in the carpet he's sending her a bill.

She had not allowed him to put her off. No reminding her of the contract signed on the day of the tour had been sufficient. She knows the other children have been...put right. More or less. More, at least, than Mike. _There must be something you can do_ , she had continued to insist.

And, well, that turns out to be true.

"My dear lady," Wonka tells her magnanimously, and also, she suspects, by way of punishment. "Can any of us truly say anything is going to be alright?"

But he simply has to be. What else was she supposed to do? She couldn't leave him like that.

She has to admit that it had been soothing to know he was too small to hack anything, if only for a little while. But it is also no sort of life for him, and as much as Ethel wishes he could remain her little Mikey for as long as possible, she doesn't want to deny him that. What sort of mother would that make her? She wants a boy who isn't too embarrassed to hold his mother's hand in public, not a boy who will never be able get a job. Or a glass of water from the kitchen sink.

If she is upset she has been barred from witnessing the spectacle of tiny orange-haired men and women from a place that absolutely does not exist returning her son to a functional size, Ethel thinks Wonka may be doubly so. But Mike had been adamant that he did not want either of them in the room, his tiny voice screaming it until the moment they left. Ethel is quite sure she heard the chocolatier mutter under his breath: _Put a boy in a taffy puller...not even allowed to watch...what is the point I ask you?_

She is beginning to ask herself the same thing, for an entirely different reason. Taffy puller. How could such a thing possibly work? What has she done? She turns towards the chocolatier, mouth open, ready to demand they collect her son this instant.

Wonka's eyes are shut. He is rubbing his temples with his thumb and index finger.

"Mrs. Teavee, your terrible son will be fine," he says.

Ethel shuts her mouth.

But not before sniffing:

" _Terrible_. Mr. Wonka, my Mikey is a good boy. He's just...head-strong."

It doesn't ring true, even to her own ears, and if she's honest with herself, it hasn't for some time. But Michael is her son. If she doesn't defend him, no one will.

The chocolatier looks nonplussed.

"You do recall," Wonka points out, "that I have met your son?"

Ethel wraps her arms around herself.

"You don't have children. You don't understand."

"No," Wonka agrees.

She was not expecting him to agree with her. It freezes the rest of her argument/explanation on her lips. That of course she knows that Mike is...Mike. But that doesn't mean she can't cling to the hope that he will someday grow out of it.

Hope is the operative word. She does know that it is...unlikely. That everyone else she knows of who knows him has given up on her son ever being anything but trouble. That they think she is blind, or an idiot to excuse his behavior like she does, or put up with it silently. The truth is, she does not know what else to do. He is is her son. She loves her son. So that is what she does, and hopes that it will, somehow, work out. 

And then, of course, something explodes.

It's Wonka's Factory. She ought to have expected it, or something like it anyway. A freak flood. Bees. And it's a strange sort of explosion. The room shakes and fills with smoke, but there's no accompanying heat; no debris.

"Ohhhhhhhh that was...bad," someone rasps, before dissolving into a coughing fit.

"I'm sure it will be fine," Wonka insists, far too cheerily.

Ethel waves the smoke away from her face and glances over at the chocolatier. She can just barely see that he is beside his desk, trying to do the same.

"Are you kidding?" She squawks. 

"I would say yes," Wonka replies. "But I'm afraid that wasn't me."

The smoke is lifting more rapidly now. There is something in the room with them, she can see. A glass box. A great glass box. And in front of it, stands Wonka.

He is identical to the Wonka who has moved to stand beside her, except that this Wonka has a lab coat on over his garish green and purple outfit, and a pair of goggles over his eyes. And instead of a middle aged, Midwestern woman, there is a young man beside him, still doubled over and coughing.

"Ah," the newer Wonka says, "I see I'm already here. That's somewhat rude of me."

The Wonka beside her does not look amused. Ethel's eyes drift to the young man, who has straightened up and is pulling his own goggles down around his neck. He must, she thinks, be Charlie Bucket. A much, for some reason, older Charlie Bucket, even if the Wonka he has arrived with does not appear to have aged a day.

It's funny. She would not have thought Charlie Bucket would grow up to be the sort of young man to wear combat boots. Or have quite so many tattoos. And she does not recall him having such dark hair, or such blue eyes set in a face that so resembles her son's fa-OH NO.

No.

It isn't Charlie Bucket she is looking at all, it's _Michael_. Michael, in perhaps his mid-twenties. Michael looking every inch as much trouble as the twelve year old boy she allowed a madman to strap into a taffy puller earlier today. If not several inches more. He is not, she notices, terribly tall.

She doesn't need proof, but she gets it anyway, as he finally looks in her direction. He blinks. His lips twitch.

"Wonka," he says to the Wonka next to him, out of only one side of his mouth as if that will keep her and the other Wonka from hearing. "Why. Is there. A you. Here? Why is _my mom_ here?"

The Wonka beside him leans down slightly, and says, out of the corner of his own mouth:

"Well. Michael. It is. My factory. And. I'm sure. I don't know. You are the one who is related to her."

"OH GOD," Ethel wails and it's almost satisfying how startled this terrible future version of her son looks. He holds up his hands and approaches her cautiously, like she might faint, or explode, or bite.

"Uh. Hi. Mom. It's, uh, it's okay. It's me. It's Mike."

His voice is surprisingly gentle and warm. And grown up: deeper, but not too deep. She can still hear her son's voice in there. That is definitely, somehow, what his nasal whine will turn into.

But she jerks back from him like he jerks back from her so often, and he lets his tattooed arms fall awkwardly to his sides.

"It appears," the Wonka-who-is-not-her-Wonka explains, "that our attempt to upgrade my elevator has resulted in a just a smidgen of time travel."

He gives a sheepish shrug, as if these things happen all of the time. Maybe they do. Ethel certainly remembers when she would have thought time travel was impossible, but that was before she held a miniature version of her own son in her hand, and then shoved him in her purse.

The Wonka beside her gestures to the future version of her son with his cane, like it is the proverbial ten foot pole he would not touch him with.

"An alternate future where _that_ won my factory? I've never been so disappointed in myself," he sniffs. 

Mike rolls his eyes.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I just work here," he says.

"You...work here?" Ethel finds herself asking. Because while Wonka said _our attempts_ , and Mike was wearing goggles, somehow she had still assumed he was...wherever he and Wonka were under untoward circumstances. Perhaps having broken into Wonka's factory. He does not look...employable.

"We locked ourselves in our factory for forty years after spies stole our intellectual property," present day Wonka says. "And then we turn around and hire the boy who hacked our system? ...Are we going senile?"

"It makes perfect sense," future Wonka insists. "If he can hack our system, he can make sure no one else can hack our system."

"Among other things," Mike says. He has pulled out a rather fancy looking screwdriver, and twirls it in his hand like Wonka sometimes twirls his cane. He turns toward the box and begins to coax out panels that should not be able to exist because the thing is made of clear glass. 

Present day Wonka watches him like one might watch a mosquito that has gotten in.

"And he does a good job?" He asks.

"Michael was employee of the month last month," Future Wonka says.

Michael looks up at him.

"Wait, I was?" He asks.

"...Oh, did we forget to tell you?" Future Wonka says. "Well, you were. Congratulations."

"Thanks. I guess," Mike says, still sounding slightly perplexed. "Do I get a coffee mug or something?"

"Oh no," Future Wonka is quick to clarify. "No. No. You get nothing."

Mike rolls his eyes again, then flops onto his back to wriggle his way under the glass box. Ethel leaves the two chocolatiers to discuss the pros and cons of an employee you may or may not have terrorized as a pre-teen, and creeps towards her...son.

She can see him through the glass floor, brow furrowed studiously, fingers working dexterously on wiring that isn't, then is, then isn't there. He notices her after a moment, pauses, and then slides out from under the box.

"...This is weird, huh?" He says.

"You have so many tattoos!" She blurts.

He looks confused, and then down at his own arms.

"Oh," he says. "Right. Yes?"

She stares down at them as well. Up close they are...surprisingly beautiful. Not only because they are well done: they have been placed thoughtfully, and they are all pleasant images. Script wraps gracefully around his forearm. There are stars. There are _flowers_. There is not a single skull, or blood-dripping knife, or satanic symbol anywhere that she can see.

His lips curl into a smirk like she's used to seeing on his twelve year old face, but even that is a little softer.

"They're just tattoos, mom."

She wonders if he's used to telling her this. He certainly seems to have said it before.

"So...not that I mind seeing you," he begins.

And it sounds _genuine_.

"But what are you doing here?"

She's overwhelmed with guilt suddenly. Somewhere in this factory, her twelve year old son is being put through who knows what. All alone. (With Oompa Loompas.)

"We...I...I let him put you in a taffy puller," Ethel admits after a fraught moment.

The older Mike grimaces.

"Oh. Wow. This is...that. Yikes."

She must look distressed, because he's quick to add:

"I mean: don't worry, it does work. But I'm gonna be a littttttle bit cranky afterward."

Cranky. Cranky?

"Does it...does it hurt?" She asks, even as she fears the answer.

He glances up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"No. It's weird. And it is a little scary. I remember getting myself kind of worked up. And I was pretty sure I was gonna cry. That's why I didn't want you or Wonka to watch," he explains.

That does make sense. It has been years since she has seen her son cry, but she still remembers when he used to; how he would refuse to be comforted; would push people away. Ethel finds relief in a good long cry. She thinks most people do. It only seems to make Mike feel worse, and being seen seems to make it worse still.

But the thought of him, out there, crying all alone is still too much.

"Do...did you cry?" She asks, anxiously.

"Oh yeah," he chuckles. "But don't tell me you know that."

"But my poor baby!" She yelps, despite the fact that said baby is standing in front of her, seemingly just fine. He has tattoos. He doesn't count.

"Mom. Don't say that either," her grown-up son instructs. "Or that I'm so brave, or you know, anything."

As if she is just meant to _ignore_ him.

"Well I have to say something, Michael, I'm your mother!" She sniffs.

"And I'm twelve, mom," he tells her, gently. "Just ask me if I'm okay, and then, like, take me to Burger King."

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. It cannot really be that simple, can it? 

Michael has always been a challenge. A word problem she cannot never quite seem to wrap her head around. An algebra equation that she always gets wrong, and does not get credit for, even if she shows her work. Most days she feels like she has tried everything. Some days she feels like she is beyond trying. Either way, she feels like she has been set up to fail, and the more effort she puts in, the less return she gets for it.

"It doesn't have to be Burger King," her adult son continues. "McDonald's is fine too. Or Wendy's. Just something greasy I can eat in a car."

She decides to give him the benefit of the doubt, regardless of ink.

"Is...that what... _I_ said to you?" She asks, trying to imagine some version of herself doing so.

"No," Mike admits. "You went all _mom_ on me, and I went all twelve year old boy on you, and then I think I stayed in my room for a month straight and you just started leaving meatloaf and potato salad outside my door."

"But if that's what _I_ did," she reasons, "isn't that what I have to do?"

He looks pleased. He looks _impressed_. Her son has never looked impressed by anything she has said. Ethel does not know how to react to this. Particularly not without a drink in her hand.

"Time travel is tricky like that," he admits. 

"One wrong move, and who knows how many tattoos you could have," she blurts.

He does give her a look, but he mostly seems amused.

"Okay. Sure, I don't want you to do anything that makes me not exist?" He admits. "But at the same time, I'd also be okay with existing sooner, if you know what I mean. Because I'm definitely in there. And also, you've definitely never said anything about meeting a future me, and while that's a smart move, I feel like it would have slipped out at some point." 

Her lips do get a little...loose, on occasion.

"You probably shouldn't say anything to me today, at least. Or for a little while," he says. "Being twelve is hard enough as it is, you know?"

"Yes," Ethel says.

And then:

"...not really, no," Ethel admits.

"Mom," Mike says, looking her up and down. "I know you were twelve once too."

"I'm glad someone does," she finds herself saying, flatly. Mike smirks. With her: not at her. He has... _appreciated_ her humor. The corner of her own lip curls up.

"Just try and remember though," he tells her. "It's like: you're a kid, but you don't wanna be a kid, but you also don't not wanna be a kid?"

Ethel is sure she never felt like that, but it does sound like a mess.

"You can't win."

She means: parents. Specifically: herself. But she supposes it's true on the other side too. 

Mike nods apologetically.

"Kinda not."

"But now you're..."

She looks him over again. Other than the clothes and the tattoos he seems...well-adjusted. Like the son she's always hoped his medications would turn Mike into, but never did.

But he works for Wonka. And she thinks...yes, his ears are definitely pierced.

"Fine," he insists. "I get to do what I love every day. I work on amazing stuff you can't find anywhere else. And Wonka is actually-..."

His eyes dart over her shoulder where Ethel is vaguely aware there is a commotion going on. 

"...having a fight with himself," Mike finishes.

She turns just in time to see the identical chocolatiers taking identical boxing stances, and raising their identical fists at one another. 

"Um. Okay, please don't judge me," Mike says, "but I really need to film this so we can show it at the annual office non-denominational holiday party."

The Wonka in a lab coat; Michael's Wonka, drops his hands to his sides suddenly, and turns to them.

"You know, Michael, I'm not paying you to hang out with your mother all day," he says. "If you can't fix that, I'm certainly not looking forward to the process of finding another child genius and then putting them through an emotionally tumultuous tour of my factory until they're no longer unreasonable, but I will do it."

Mike rolls his eyes.

"It was fixed, like, a half hour ago," he says, pushing a button inside the box and causing the whole thing to light up and hum softly. "And you're about to sucker punch yourself."

Wonka turns back to his doppelganger.

"Were you going to sucker punch me?" He asks.

"I would never," the other Wonka says, moving his fists out of sucker-punching position. He glances at the glowing box, and then at Mike with a sort of grudging interest.

"I suppose that is your ride," Wonka continues. He extends a hand to himself. His lab-coated twin seizes it, and they shake heartily.

"We should do this again sometime," Wonka says.

"One of us should call first," Wonka replies.

"It's only polite," Wonka agrees.

"Michael," the future Wonka announces, turning on his heel and striding towards him. "That's our cue."

"One sec. Look: mom?" The future version of her son says. And he turns to look at her, and _oh_. His eyes are full of so much kindness; so much love. Ethel's chest aches for her own little boy to look at her like that, or at least _anything_ like that. Without boredom, or anger, or the inner turmoil that seems to plague his every waking moment, or the blank stare he gives his electronic devices.

"I know it doesn't always seem like it," Mike continues, "but I've always known you were there for me. And that's always meant a lot. Even to the me...that's me now...to you. I just didn't know how to say it. But I figure it out, I promise. I'm not saying it's not gonna be rough sometimes, because: puberty. I'm gonna make some mistakes. I'm gonna bring home some pretty weird girlfriends. And boyfriends. And gender non-conforming-...well that's not important right now. My point is: you're my mom. And as long as you keep being that, that's enough."

Ethel isn't sure she understood even half of that, and at the same time: it's everything she has always wanted to hear. She throws her arms around him. He doesn't squirm away, like her Mikey would. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and squeezes gently, patting her upper back.

"I love you too, mom," he says. "But I gotta go."

He steps up into the elevator beside Wonka. It starts to glow more brightly, and she wants to look away, but she doesn't, but she has to. Just before it becomes to much, Mike suddenly calls out:

"Oh, uh, don't freak out when I get a nose ring!"

"A nose what?" She yelps, turning her head back towards him. But he and Wonka are gone.

Her son, _her_ son, the twelve year old one she showed up with this morning, arrives not long after, escorted by two Oompas who look as though they feel they are not paid enough for this.

Michael is once again an appropriate size for a twelve year old boy. They've wrapped him in a bathrobe, because obviously the clothes he was wearing this morning when he was the size of a child's toy have no hope of fitting him now. He looks very thin in the parts peaking out of the robe, but Mike has always been thin. His legs look a little too long, but that's not terribly abnormal for boys his age. He'll grow into them. 

He looks completely shell-shocked: his face is a blank, blotchy mess, and his eyes are glassy and puffy. He has obviously been crying.

He stares straight ahead. He does not look at her, or at Wonka, or at the Oompas, who make a hasty exit once he's no longer their problem. His hands are balled into fists.

"...Are you alright?" She asks him, warily.

He turns his head slowly and looks up at her. His eyes darken. His brow creases into a glare.

" _No_ ," he says, his voice raspy from crying or possibly just from being stretched in a taffy puller.

And it's one of his usual, nasty, exhausting responses, like he thinks she's so stupid, and the whole world is so stupid, and never won't be. 

But he's entitled to that this time, isn't he? Just this once. She can't imagine what he's been through.

Maybe that's enough: to know that she can't. Maybe she should let him know as well. Not that she thinks for a moment that he doesn't know she doesn't understand. But maybe they need to talk about these things. Not like she would talk about them with a little boy. Because maybe Michael isn't such a little boy anymore.

In some ways. In others...

She nods at him, which he does not seem to expect. His glare begins to lift, and instead he watches her suspiciously.

"You wanna go to Burger King?" She asks.

He blinks in surprise. His face smooths again. He sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

"Yeah, okay," he murmurs.

He slips his hand into her hand. Ethel cannot remember the last time her son willingly took her hand, much less reached for it. She has to bite back a giddy giggle.

"Well. We'll just be going then," she tells the remaining Wonka, who is watching her son very carefully. Mike, who she does not think would take that well, thankfully, does not notice.

She does not pull her son as they make their way back to their cheap rental car, and Mike does not snatch his hand back.

It is, of course, the same hand he used to wipe his nose, but: baby steps.


End file.
